


Wretched and Divine

by Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, oh look it's another bath fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27542680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum/pseuds/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum
Summary: Geralt hummed and, after a soft nudge from Jaskier, returned to relaying the night's events. It didn't take long. Neither had the fight itself. The clamour and clattering from downstairs still carried up to niggle at Geralt's senses, but it felt distant, less a throbbing wound than a dull irritation. His hands worked in slow circles over Jaskier's chest; his arms; his thighs, and he lost himself in the movement.Jaskier let out a low hum of satisfaction when Geralt's fingers reached his shoulders. "You know, if this witcher business doesn't work out, you could find fine work under a bathhouse's employ."Geralt smiled. "You're full of shit, Jaskier."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 99





	Wretched and Divine

The chatter and buzz from the tavern below still an echoing cacophony in his ears, Geralt winced as he climbed the stairs and was met by the brightness of the candles lighting the hall. How was it that the hardest part of a hunt was so often the return to the searing lights and noise of civilisation afterwards? He fumbled towards the door to his room, letting his head rest against the cool wood for just a moment, the familiar scents wafting from within already beginning to soothe the frayed edges of his nerves.

He stepped inside. The room was lit by a single candle in anticipation of Geralt's return — too dim for Jaskier to be able to see well but dark enough that Geralt could open his eyes in comfort. They fell to Jaskier stood in the centre of the room; followed the smooth, pale lines on display as he shed the last of his clothes and turned towards the steaming bath tub.

"Are you spending all our coin before I've even earned it?" Geralt said.

Jaskier looked back at him. He didn't flinch at the sight of Geralt, didn't try and fail to hide his fear and revulsion the way any others unfortunate enough to encounter Geralt in this state always did. He simply smiled. "Did you kill the beast?"

"I did."

"Well then," replied Jaskier, and slowly, deliberately, climbed into the tub and made himself comfortable. He closed his eyes for a moment as Geralt watched him, savouring the sensation, before he looked back up at Geralt still stood in the doorway. He arched an eyebrow. "Are you coming in?"

It was too tempting an offer to resist. Geralt stepped forward, but before he could so much as set down his swords, Jaskier raised a hand to stop him.

"Hold on," he said. He narrowed his eyes at Geralt, as if he'd be able to properly take in the sight of him in the dim room. "How rancid are you? If you're coated in entrails again you can bloody well scrub yourself down outside."

Despite the weariness creeping into his bones and the blood still thumping in his ears, Geralt smiled. "No entrails."

"That's all right, then."

His eyes followed Geralt while he pulled of his armour. Not in the hungry way they so often did, but with a kind of casual appreciation that Geralt never quite knew how to react to. He was far more comfortable being the one to watch Jaskier in silence, taking in each gesture; each laugh; each smile; tucking them away in that place deep within his chest where Jaskier had somehow managed to embed himself. Geralt didn't know what Jaskier could find so worthy of notice about him in return.

Jaskier shifted forward for Geralt to climb into the tub behind him, quickly settling himself back against Geralt's chest as Geralt's arms wound their way around Jaskier. "Are you hurt?" Jaskier said, his voice soft, just loud enough for the small space between them. His skin was hot against Geralt's chest.

"No."

Satisfied by that response, Jaskier let more of his weight rest against Geralt. "What was it, then?" he said as he reached over for the soap — only subtly fragranced this time, the kind he always used when he knew Geralt had a hunt.

Geralt had never asked him to. He'd never asked for any of the things Jaskier did to make Geralt's life, if not easier, then at least a little more comfortable.

He couldn't deny it was appreciated, though. Like this, the potions still coursing through his veins, he was on a knife edge; every noise too loud, every smell too strong, his body primed for a fight to the death with nothing left to kill. Geralt hadn't known how he would cope with the overwhelming need to rest somewhere quiet and dark and calm in the company of a man who was very deliberately none of those things. Nor had he known how he could make Jaskier understand the realities of Geralt's life without scaring him away for good. He hadn't needed to do anything, as it turned out.

Jaskier pulled one of Geralt's hands up to inspect and, with a _tsk_ of displeasure at the grime he found there, took up a small brush and set to gently scrubbing at Geralt's nails.

Geralt's eyes slipped closed. "Werewolves," he said. He took a long, slow breath, letting the steam that curled up from the water fill his lungs. Among the chaos of clashing scents aggravating the buzzing in Geralt's head — soap and dirt, blood and sweat, ale and cooked meats drifting from the tavern — there was one that stood out, in all its familiar comfort, drawing Geralt in. He pressed his nose to Jaskier's soft hair and tried to shut out all the others.

He could hear the frown in Jaskier's voice when he spoke. "More than one?"

"Hmm."

"Is that commonplace?"

"It's rare," said Geralt. He curled his fingers against the tingling beneath his skin as Jaskier released one hand and picked up the other. "But not impossible."

"Do you think the alderman will pay double?"

"I'll let you try to convince him."

Jaskier set Geralt's hand back down and he pressed it to Jaskier's chest, the hair there tickling at his palm but he didn't pull it away again. He could feel Jaskier's heart beating steadily beneath his skin. His own was still fighting hard to rid his body of the toxins in his blood. Geralt focused on Jaskier's heartbeat, waiting for his own to fall into time with it.

"Tell me about the hunt," said Jaskier.

Geralt took the soap from Jaskier's hand. He was getting better at this part, the words coming easier now than they did when Jaskier first began hounding him for stories about his various contracts. He had even learnt to take note of details Jaskier would find particularly useful: the slouching lurch of a creature's movements; a trail of slime drooling thick and rancid from sharp teeth. As he talked, Geralt worked the soap into a lather in his hands and pressed them to Jaskier's skin.

Jaskier melted into the touch, gone warm and pliant against Geralt. It made it easier to pretend that his hands might have been good for something but violence. That he might have been built to be gentle and nurturing the way Jaskier was. As if the hands on him weren't rough with calluses and clumsy from lack of experience, Jaskier pushed back against them like it was one of life's greatest pleasures.

"I should be doing this for you," said Jaskier.

"You do too much for me already."

"Not nearly enough, my darling."

Geralt hummed and, after a soft nudge from Jaskier, returned to relaying the night's events. It didn't take long. Neither had the fight itself. The clamour and clattering from downstairs still carried up to niggle at Geralt's senses, but it felt distant, less a throbbing wound than a dull irritation. His hands worked in slow circles over Jaskier's chest; his arms; his thighs, and he lost himself in the movement.

Jaskier let out a low hum of satisfaction when Geralt's fingers reached his shoulders. "You know, if this witcher business doesn't work out, you could find fine work under a bathhouse's employ."

Geralt smiled. "You're full of shit, Jaskier."

He laughed at that, full-throated and welcoming. Geralt wanted to bury his face against Jaskier's chest to get closer to the sound.

"Yes, perhaps you're right," said Jaskier. He twisted to look back at Geralt with fond eyes and pressed a delicate kiss to his lips. "I should much rather keep you all to myself."

"Hmm. Kiss me again."

"Gladly."

The kiss they shared was slow and deep, the kind that lingered even after Jaskier had pulled away. Languid seconds passed before Geralt opened his eyes again. They took a moment to adjust to the darkness.

Jaskier was smiling back at him. "There you are," he said, his thumb gentling over Geralt's cheekbone, chasing away the echo of black veins. His gaze drifted over Geralt while Geralt's hands returned to trace lazy circles along Jaskier's skin. "Is your blood still up?"

"A little."

"Well that's fortunate." He stood, and Geralt drank in the view, water droplets clinging to Jaskier's bare skin, urging Geralt to stretch up and catch them on his tongue. Geralt pressed a hand to Jaskier's flat stomach, heat growing beneath the skin as his palm smoothed slowly downwards. Jaskier covered Geralt's hand with his own to guide it lower still. "Because I have the most wonderful idea how to put all that excess adrenaline to use."

Geralt grinned as he followed Jaskier out of the tub.


End file.
